Play with Fire
by Svenja The Strange
Summary: "John has never had the illusion that kissing Sherlock would be like anything he has ever experienced before, anything near to normal in any sense of the word. Sherlock and him – they just don't do normal." Oneshot. Can be read as sequel to my story "A Different Kind of Love". Rated M for language and to be sure. Please review!


**Disclaimer:** All rights belong to other happy people. No infringement intended. If I was granted a wish though, I'd ask for Benedict Cumberbatchs' incredibly sexy voice. I'd have him say the naughtiest of things. ;-)

**Note:** Just a little Oneshot I came up with. Can be read as a sequel to my story _A Different Kind of Lo_ve. It's different in style but it picks up certain events mentioned there. The title is taken from the song "Play with Fore" by Cobra Verde. Listening to it made me want to write something sexy. ;-)

PLEASE, honour me with a review!

**Play with Fire**

As John fidgets with the collar of his tight dress shirt uncomfortably, he decides he can't remember when it started. Maybe something of it has been there from the beginning, from the very moment he first set eyes on the tall, trim figure, on the voluptuous shock of dark locks, the pair of piercing, grey-green eyes. Maybe not.

Maybe it started later, maybe the moment he realized this mysteriously dark man and his insufferable rudeness, his incredibly disturbed but genius mind are the only things keeping his own disturbed mind on the brink of the gaping abyss called insanity. Maybe it was the moment he realized he needs Sherlock, _desperately_. Not because he would die without him. _Existence_, as the many years before their meeting have shown, is possible. But not _living._

Maybe he has just started to notice after all these times people have told him, have assumed, have supposed. Or maybe it's just because of the_ fucking_ tux.

It has gotten considerably harder to breathe. He blames the collar, this damn, _bloody _tight collar and the bow tie. Well, partly. The other part, and there is no doubt about that, is to blame on Sherlock awaiting him in the living room like _that_.

He is loitering in the armchair facing John as he enters, his insanely long legs draped casually over each other, dressed in tight fitting, well tailored, expensive dress pants. His hair, for once, is not the usual nonchalant mess of silky black, it is now sleek and combed in place carefully, leaving the view on his high, aristocratic brow free.

John gulps heavily, trying to outplay any sign of excitement by expressing embarrassment over his own attire. _Futile, _he thinks._ He knows. He always knows._ Nevertheless, he opens his arms to give Sherlock a better view of his body, spins slowly, eyebrows raised.

"O.k.?" he asks, unsure.

The bastard has the audacity to smile smoothly and take time with his response. Distinct lips stretch, exposing small white teeth. A predator.

"Quite good, actually."

John breathes out audibly. He is not used to wearing clothing this formal and feels uncomfortable. He has taken a bit of trouble, though, making sure he wears it with style. His hair, even though short, lies in a neat side part. He feels masqueraded but handsome.

"You too." _Obviously_, as Sherlock might add. John has seen him in suits before, but never like this, never in a real, formal tuxedo, never with groomed hair, never with the golden cufflinks that were a present from his brother (Sherlock hates them). Never this… _tony_.

"Remind me again, John. Why ever have I agreed to do this?" the detective sighs meaningfully and glances at the complex experimental setup that takes up most of the space on the kitchen table with longing.

"Because you did your last client a big favor by finding his valuable stolen family jewels. This is his way of saying thank you."

"So I do him a favor and he thanks me by forcing me to attend a tedious social event I don't have the slightest inclination of visiting? I don't go to the opera – however expensive and exclusive you may point out the seats are – and I regard sipping champagne with stupid strangers, making dull conversation about random topics or boring gossip as an utter waste of time. This is hardly a "return of the favor", it's social violence. He steals my valuable time and thereby violates my right to be an unsociable, rude person. I should sue him for it."

John pushes aside the urge to tell him that this is _exactly _what Sherlock is doing to him _all the time_. Instead he answers:

"Yeah, well. You said yes and now it would be impolite to cancel on such short notice."

"I don't care for polite, you know that. Polite is _dull_." The last words are accompanied by a stubborn almost childish gesture, pushing out of the arm chair and snatching up his violin suddenly.

John watches the other man as his long, pale fingers pluck at the strings absentmindedly. It has struck him as rather atypical that Sherlock has agreed to go in the first place. Of course when the client invited them, John said yes out of sheer politeness ("Oh, of course. I'd be delighted. Thank you very much." When really, he wasn't.).

"Why did you say yes, then?" he glances at his watch and picks up the paper from the coffee table. At least ten more minutes before they need to go. _No need to stare at that devastatingly handsome flat mate of yours more than necessary_, John tells himself.

The only reply he gets is the sound of a violin, playing a familiar tune softly. John recognizes it as the serenade Sherlock composed and gave him for Christmas. _Johns' Serenade_. He feels his ears redden as a by now familiar heat rushes to his head, his stomach jolts as though he has missed a step climbing the stairs. Sherlock has his back turned to him. A slender back, expensive black fabric stretching over his shoulder blades visibly.

John knows what the music means, knows that Sherlock knows he knows, knows why the other man doesn't want to say it, or even look at him while playing. _For you_, the violin whispers at John. There is no need to talk, there never has been. They both know what's going on.

The physical attraction, though, this almost magnetic force pulling John towards Sherlock – now, that is new. It must have been around Christmas a few months ago that John realized he loves the man. Truly, honestly _loves_ him with everything that comes with the feeling. Every bit of the tearing sensation in his chest, the desire to always be around him, the blind spot for all his quirks and character flaws (an there's quite a number of them), the desperate, consuming fear to lose him. He has been interpreting it as friendship all this time– undoubtedly an exceptionally strong and deep friendship.

But after Christmas, everything seems to have changed. No, he really doesn't know when it started, but he thinks Christmas Eve might have been some kind of turning point. For Sherlock too, he knows. Ever since that night, he has noticed something, has noticed _looks_ he has been throwing Johns way, has noticed lingering touches. What John doesn't know is how aware of his own feelings the other man is. Better to tread lightly. There's not been much experience with feelings on Sherlocks side. _Just transport_, an echo rings in Johns ears. _Not my area_.

He clears his throat loudly as his eyes catch sight of the detectives' slim hip hugged by his pants and the narrow-waisted suit jacket. Sherlock drops his violin and glances around at him, waiting for him to say something. John pretends to be just looking up from his paper for a second to give the other man a short, polite smile. _Damn_, this collar _is_ tight and uncomfortable.

"We might as well get going. This waiting is _insufferable_ and rather pointless."

"You're probably right."

They get their jackets. Sherlock, with his strange disregard of the appropriate or normal behavior between flat mates, helps John into his coat. With an endearing gesture he brushes away an invisible lint from Johns shoulder slowly and tugs at the smaller mans tie. _Dear god_.

"Oh look at you!" Mrs. Hudson shouts delightedly. "So handsome." She comes in and pinches Johns' cheek affectionately.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

"Big plans tonight, eh?" she winks at Sherlock mischievously. "Finally treating John the way he deserves. Took you long enough, really."

A shout of protest forms in Johns mind but catches in his throat as he notices Sherlocks grin. Mrs. Hudson wouldn't have listened to him anyway. He has been trying to convince the woman for years. Of what, though? _That you don't actually love him to death? Who are you kidding?_

"Off we go, then." Sherlock says dryly with an expression of _let's-get-this-over-with_.

Outside it is unusually warm for an evening in May. The sinking sun pours a golden glow over the town, the air is mild and hazy. _It is way too warm to be wearing a bow tie_, John thinks. They hail a cab and ride to the opera in their habitual comfortable silence. They have that kind of relationship. The kind where you can be around each other, just being with the other person for hours and days without speaking and neither party will think anything wrong. They can chatter, bicker and discuss eternally when they feel like it, but they can also stay in common muteness without seeming unsociable. It's quite intimate, this way of being together.

John wipes his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand and grunts in displeasure, groping his collar again. From the corner of his eye he notices Sherlocks amused smirk. As always, the cool detective masters the normally uncontrollable functions of the human body perfectly. There is not one drop of sweat to be seen on his clear forehead. Eating, drinking, sleeping, sweating… all _transport_. Hell, sometimes John wonders if Sherlock is wearing diapers secretly. He hardly ever seems to have to go to the loo. It's _infuriating._ And kind of impressive, John has to admit to himself.

About the diapers, John hopes he's wrong. That would be a definite turn off. Not that he is _turned on_ by Sherlock. He may have admitted to himself he _loves_ him, but _platonically_. Yes, the feeling is a violent hand, gripping his heart and pressing mercilessly. Yes, the thought of ever not being with him, living with him, seeing him every day makes his throat tighten to the point where breathing gets impossible. Yes, the thought of seeing him with someone else makes Johns chest swell with jealous anger. But that's clearly_ platonic_ jealous anger.

The stupid bugger must be reading his thoughts again, John decides, as he notices Sherlock looking at him strangely, his thumb on his chin and his long, white index finger resting against his lips. The moment these lips part slightly and the finger brushes the fine line where the visible outside of the lower lip meets the wet inside thoughtfully, John has to look away. He hates and loves the way this small movement affects him. It causes warmth to spread in the pit of his stomach and, even worse, below that. He is sure if he doesn't look away, Sherlock will notice.

"Hmmm." The deep voice of the detective hums reflectively. Whether it is a comment on Johns behavior, the expression of a problem Sherlock is deliberating (in his head he has undoubtedly told John about it) or an all together subconscious movement of his vocal chords while completely lost in the work on his mind palace John doesn't know.

"Hm?" he replies and shoots Sherlock a look of mildly surprised interest.

"Hornets." Holmes says flatly and John is calmed. One of the latter two options then.

They arrive just a little earlier than agreed on and linger outside for a while, enjoying the last beams of spring sun while Sherlock deviously maneuvers them in the proximity of a group of smokers, apparently trying to inhale some of the toxic goodness they are emitting without Johns notice. He may be an idiot, in Sherlocks opinion, but he is not that big an idiot. The smaller man gives his flat mate a _Really?-You're-being-obvious_-stare and Sherlock grins a little guiltily.

_A cigarette would certainly add to the general gorgeousness of the picture_, John thinks despite himself. Standing there in his coat and tuxedo with his hair like that, cheekbones throwing distinct shadows in the beams of the evening sun, Sherlock looks a little like a model for an exclusive watch or clothing advert.

John feels the heat rise up again, his shirt clings unpleasantly to his back. They have been dancing this hidden-looks-dance for months now. Ever since Christmas Eve, when they danced together and the music left them with that unspoken question between them. _Do ya think I'm sexy_? Damn you, Rod Stewart.

_Oh, what the hell_, John decides, _why not take this dance to the next level?_

"I have to say again, Sherlock, you look quite dashing." His voice is a little more high-pitched than usual and he knows Sherlock will take note of it. He curses his body for failing him and calls him a damn traitor, inwardly.

The tall man just stares at him with pale eyes. Embarrassed? Flattered? _Pleased?_ Somehow John has the impression it's the latter. _"I consider myself married to my work."_ John remembers, the thought is a bucket of cold water poured out over his head without warning. Can he really be that wrong, can he really be misinterpreting? No, he knows something has changed. He's seen it in those cool, grey eyes. He just doesn't know how this change will surface, or when. _Or if at all_, as a matter of fact.

"I like your hair." Says Sherlock and John can't quite believe it. Was this a compliment? Then Sherlock exhales, clearly displeased, as John notices their former client and well-wisher for the evening approaching over the square in front of the opera house, family in tow.

"I can already fell the dullness radiation off them." Sherlock mumbles bitterly and vaguely wiggles his fingers into their direction. "Oh God, John. Please don't leave me alone with them, I won't be able to stand the tediousness of it all. Maybe Lestrade will call." He adds hopefully. John can't bring himself to tell Sherlock he'll have to turn his phone off once the performance starts. He turns towards the people approaching them and switches his smile on.

"Be nice. I know you hate this, but they mean well, so behave."

Sherlock is standing right behind him, so close he can almost feel him breathing into Johns hair.

"What will you do if I don't?"

The question is mumbled so lowly, John can't possibly make out whether Sherlock is being sarcastic or playful. The first one, judging from the things he knows about Sherlock, is more likely. The second however… _Jeez._

A lot of meaningless civilities and smiles later, John and Sherlock are standing in the richly decorated foyer between hundreds of well dressed upper class people, drinking champagne that costs more than their monthly rent from glasses that cost more than Johns' whole suit. He feels decidedly out of place, while Sherlock, however displeased with it, fully fits the picture of the bored, rich playboy.

Mrs. Turner, the clients' wife, is displaying the stolen and recovered jewels around her fleshy neck, making sure to shove it into Johns' eyesight as frequently as the etiquette allows. Her husband is a few meters away, blathering on banking business to Sherlock, who manages to look surprisingly interested while Miss Turner, the clients' (_single_, as Mrs. Turner never fails to mention) daughter, is currently trying to catch Sherlocks' attention by laughing delightedly at everything he says and touching his arm more than probably necessary. In a moment of distraction, Sherlock catches Johns' eye. His entertained-act drops and he gives John an eye roll. Then they both grin.

In the private box of the family Turner it is hot and stuffy. The velvet seats are highly uncomfortable in this heat and Johns' collar begins to itch seriously now, especially when he notices Sherlock sitting down in the seat next to him, closer to him than John feels comfortable with at the moment. Sherlocks' tight dress pants tauten visibly over his slender thighs as he sits. It makes John gulp.

There is an awkward moment when they both try to put their hands on the one arm rest separating their seats, but before their hands touch, Sherlock, much to Johns' surprise, retreats and puts his hand in his lap limply, before bringing it to his face, hiding another eye role, as Miss Turner drops into the seat to his other side with an inviting smile.

Soon the performance starts and within ten minutes John is absolutely positive that Wagner is definitely not his cup of tea. After twenty minutes his eyelids begin to feel seriously heavy. It is not until he notices the movement to his right that anything catches his attention. Sherlock, obviously not as inhumanly in control of his sweat production as assumed, lifts his hand slowly and inconspicuously fingers the top two buttons of his shirt until they are open, revealing the sight on a tiny bit of white throat. John hears himself gasp.

_O.K., this is good. So he's not completely void of human sensation after all. This is a good sign. Wait, why?_

Too late he remembers that gasping, unfortunately, is a very noticeable reaction, especially when sitting next to hyperobserving Sherlock Holmes. The smirk he gives John is almost obscene and he can feel the effect almost instantly as it manifests in the form of a quickened heartbeat and a thrilling tingle in his entire body. _Noticable,_ John reminds himself. Somehow, reminding doesn't work.

As Sherlocks grin lingers, John starts to wonder if he has opened his buttons intentionally. There is now way, _no way in hell_ (even though John has tried, _really _tried to be so careful not to let it show), that Sherlock hasn't noticed a physical component has appeared in their relationship. In fact, he shows that he has more than noticed by doing something entirely unexpected. Just when pretty, young Miss Turner bends over and whispers something in the detectives' ear, he slides his hand out of his lap and next to Johns onto the arm rest. Their pinkies touch ever so lightly but John is sure now, absolutely certain, that this is not an accident.

The tiny gesture is enough to give his pulse a quick start. He turns his head sharply, staring at Sherlock. The dark haired man holds his head tilted to his right, offering a willing ear to whatever the girl next to him is whispering. But his eyes are fixed on John. He licks his lips, slowly. _Teasingly_, John realizes. _HOT_.

The break in the performance comes no minute to early. Letting everyone else leave the box first, John follows Sherlock directly, secretly checking out his adorable backside as he is sure no one can see. It gives him a strange satisfaction to know that not even Sherlock himself will ever know. It's pretty exciting.

Sherlock lags behind the Turners slightly.

"I swear to you, if the fat blonde one blares out one more aria I'm going to die from an ear infection."

"As a doctor, I am sure, you are perfectly aware that you don't just die from an ear infection." Sherlock chuckles, somewhat amused. They are slowly strolling the expensively furnished halls of the opera house. On the deserted stairs Sherlock turns around suddenly and John finds himself on eye level with the usually much taller detective. Vaguely he observes that the top tow buttons of Sherlocks shirt are neatly closed again as though nothing has happened.

They stare at each other for a moment, noses almost touching, champagne scented breaths mingling. John feels his heart racing but is still quick-witted enough to notice that Sherlocks breathing, too, is ragged. His eyes are two inky black blotches in a pool of quicksilver, unmoving but vibrant.

"John." His voice is warm and loud and said with no kind of emotion John could possibly manage to classify as anything. _What does that mean? What does that mean? What are we doing? _Every fiber of his being is trying to sort out what is going on, to presage what will happen next. But there is just silence, silence and hot champagne-breath.

John decides it is time to act. For a second there his eyes dart down to glimpse at the detectives lips but in the split second it takes his head to dart forward, his head intervenes and directs him several inches to the side.

"What is going on here?" he whispers, voice hoarse and raspy, into Sherlocks ear.

"I thought you of all people would know, being the social-interactions-expert in our duo." The other mans words cause the fine hair behind Johns ear to tingle.

"But you said you weren't interested. Ever. In any of it. _Just transport_, you said."

There is a sharp jolt of stinging heat shooting straight for Johns pants as Sherlocks lips brush past his ear, touching them ever so lightly but leaving a tiny wet spot to cool in the conditioned air of the hall.

"Come on, John. Don't be _dull_." And then the detective turns around - a few strands of his well tamed shock of dark curls brush against Johns face as he does so - and starts to descend the stairs slowly. But the answer is all that John needs, all that John wants.

It is an invitation, a challenge: _Your move._

And as John follows Sherlock down into the foyer to be bombarded with the well meaning chatter of the family Turner, more, _much_ more expensive champagne and tiny, pretentious caviar bits, he can only stare at the tall, dark figure throwing him subtle smiles from over the rim of his glass. He can think solely one thing:

_You'd better not play with me, Holmes, because you're playing with fire. _

And just like that every potential insecurity vanishes. There is nothing left to discuss, nothing left to consider. That deep, profound feeling of trust and love and devotion has been there forever. The assurance that physicality is a possibility is new, is exciting, is such a turn on that John only now allows himself to really be engulfed by the desire his tall detective stirs in him. _The game is on_.

By the end of the break John feels rather tipsy. Sherlock too, he can tell from the way his sharp, pale eyes are not as focused as usual and slightly glazed over. Obviously he has decided to ditch some of his usual self-control and have another glass. Despite Sherlocks nutrition-policy he does secretly enjoy good food and drink, as John knows, and the champagne is excellent.

As the gong pronounces the end of the break and calls them to their box, again John makes sure to fall behind a little and is, of course, not surprised to find that Sherlock too is lingering back. They stroll comfortably close, side by side, shoulders bumping every now and then from their slightly unsteady walk.

Little Miss Turner seems to be on constant lookout for Sherlock, twisting he slender neck every other second to monitor his interactions with John.

"The bathroom was this way, wasn't it? Excuse us for a minute. We'll be right up there with you." Sherlock smiles politely, stopping at the bottom of the stairs the Turners have already climbed halfway. _Wait, did he just say "we"?_ Sherlock must have registered the puzzlement in Johns' demeanour. With an easy gesture he touches his arm and looks at him in noncommittal wonder.

"I think you were looking for the bathrooms earlier and couldn't find them?"

"Oh – um, yeah. Thanks. We'll be right up." The last part somewhat lamely to the Turners. It dawns on John that repeating the exact same confirmation Sherlock has just given them will probably not add to making it sound less suspicious. And that something suspicious is going on John is absolutely sure.

"Fine, boys. But hurry, you wouldn't want to miss the orchestral prelude, would you?"

Sherlock gives one of his patented uptight smiles that no one but John is able to discover as absolutely fake. The Turners continue their climb of the stairs. And that is when John sees it: a wicked, complacent grin. No, more of a _leering smirk_. The detectives pale eyes flicker into Johns direction for no more than a split second before he slowly strolls down the corridor in the cruelest display of nonchalance John has ever witnessed. Big, pale hand clasped casually behind a slender back, long legs striding around a dimly lit corner in painful slowness.

_Click_. Johns mouth spontaneously forms an enlightened "O". He does not need the tempting view of Sherlocks backside as it glides around the corner and out of sight to realize that now is the time to use whatever small amount of time Sherlock has bought them with his bathroom lie. He dashes down the corridor and finds the other man around the corner, leaning on the wall. His expression says "_I am so bored, please don't talk to me_" but his eyes – John knows how to read those seemingly emotionless eyes – his eyes say "_the game is on_".

It is all he needs to see. Within seconds he has the smug bastard pinned against the wall. How is it possible for a man to look so unbelievably _cool_ and _hot_ at the same time? John feels his own body heat radiating off him like a hot-air blower. He knows it's written all over his face. His need, his passion, his _desire_. No need to conceal this desperate want any longer. _Fuck _flat mates, _fuck_ Sherlocks all-deducing look, _fuck_ Sherlock. Oh, well.

The breathing of the other man is untypically rugged and heavy, his breath hot and sticky on Johns face. There is an electrifying silence. Every last inch of Johns body is strung to the breaking point, hell, just _looking_ at the sultry expression on the other mans' face from such close distance is triggering an all too familiar feeling in his pants.

"You'd better not play with me." John shares his thoughts from earlier that evening in a low, dangerous growl, pressing closer against Sherlocks body with a jolt. His hands are propped up against the wall just above Sherlocks shoulders and the sensation of his wrists brushing against the soft skin of the detectives neck is so damn _good,_ he doesn't even give a shit that he probably looks pretty funny pinning the much taller detective against the wall like that.

With a quick gesture Sherlocks head dips forward several inches, almost closing the distance between their lips entirely, but instead of pressing his lips against Johns, he _snaps_. A hot sting of lust shoots trough Johns body at the sound of Sherlocks teeth clicking together, disturbing the hot air between them without making contact.

It's too much. When John closes the distance, he captures those distinct lips, this perfect mouth in an angry, wet kiss. The first contact is so intense he thinks his legs will fail him. Sherlocks mouth responds hungrily, devouring every inch of John that he can conquer with the fierce attack of that ridiculously luscious cupids' bow of his. A fierce attack - yes, that's what it is. It is a battle for dominance, a fight against submission, a probing of powers. It's frantic and kinky, and god – so _fucking infuriatingly sexy_.

It is all John has ever imagined it to be. It's like holding a match between your fingertips until the very last second, always torn between the sensation of a delicious heat and the fear to get burned. John has never had the illusion that kissing Sherlock would be like anything he has ever experienced before, anything near to _normal_ in any sense of the word. Sherlock and him – they just don't do normal. They do roughness, they do _danger_.

Teeth crash against teeth. In his passion, Sherlock bites down on Johns lower lip, _hard_, but just nor hard enough to draw blood. Soon they have to retract, panting for air.

As they break the kiss, both men stare, speechless, breathless, from the unanticipated force of their shared desire. Johns takes in the glorious sight in front of him: Sherlocks lips are red and glistening with the delectable mixture of both their salvia, his pupils are blown wide except for the small ring of pale grey that is still visible seems to be vibrating in anticipation. The long, sharp bows of his cheekbones are tinted a delightful rose colour. And he revels in the knowledge, that he, John Watson, has done this to Sherlock Holmes.

"I think we should get back." An ever so light tremor in the rich baritone betrays his offhandedness.

"Yes, I think the foreplay has already started."

Sherlock smirks, an untypically lustful sigh escaping his slightly parted lips at the word "foreplay".

"Prelude, John." He corrects succinctly. John shrugs and steps back to release Sherlock from his position against the wall. John straightens his tie. It will be another minute or so until he will be ready to go back to the Turners box, these dress pants really leave nothing to the imagination. Seeing that Sherlock is in a similar state of arousal does certainly _not_ help to cool him down.

They climb the stairs together, hands touching ever so lightly, and enter the box as the music is already in full progress. The second they sit down the pretty Miss Turner tilts her head towards Sherlock to whisper something in his ear. But this time John does not envy her the attention. Something in the way the delicate spot where Sherlocks dark curls tingle the soft skin of his neck is still flushed red with desire tells him that while she might have the detectives polite attentiveness, _all _the other parts belong to John tonight. God, he cannot wait to get home.

After all that has come to past between them over the past years, months, over the past minutes: there is no way John is letting Sherlock escape from this _unburned_.


End file.
